


hot sugar

by fletcherenns



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Multi, Pit Scene rework but somehow MORE homoerotic, Praise Kink, Tad "Plot Device" Carruthers, we both need psychological help lets kiss haha
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 08:47:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29898564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fletcherenns/pseuds/fletcherenns
Summary: Henry leans a knee on the bed, all casual, balling up the discarded fabric so he has something to do with his hands. His short shirt’s ridden higher. Gansey studiously ignores the strip of skin at the back. “Don’t drink poison,” he chides. “Jiang dumped Broadway’s perfume into that punch. I think it may count as a nuclear weapon now. I would hate to assassinate such an American treasure.”“It’s only an assassination if it’s for political purposes.”or, the “this guy is being so weird to me at this party can you pretend we’re here together so he leaves me alone” prompt but it’s chengsey & only relatively canon-compliant. minor bluesey/ronsey/adamsey if you squint at the right angles. vaguely between tdt and bllb.
Relationships: Henry Cheng/Richard Gansey III, Minor or Background Relationship(s), theyre all in love ykwim
Comments: 7
Kudos: 18





	hot sugar

**Author's Note:**

> **gansey:** my THREE (3) boyfriends and ONE(1) girlfriend are ALL ghosting me at the same time :(
> 
> minor tw for gansey's bug related episodes/accidental self harm.  
> title from glass animals' song 'hot sugar'.  
> some lines are adapted from trk. next chap is nsfw if i ever finish it lol

There is something terrible slithering under his skin. Not really, no - it’s something gushing warm and deeply uncomfortable. Gansey feels like he’s going to rip through his own body at the seams, but he _can’t_ , because for all his Ganseyness -he is still unremarkably human. This isn’t even fire. He feels molten, in the way of pahoehoe, chunky and excruciatingly slow. Ronan has been conveniently away since Kavinsky, studiously ignoring him, and he knows that the Pig is back, but it’s still not the _same_. 

It’s the sting of dismay, really - not quite the twenty-three stabs of Julius Caesar, but something like the assassination of Archimedes. Things that just aren't supposed to happen. Gansey groans, because he can’t even think of a Glendower-related anecdote, because his head is still foggy and first it was Adam who _took his car_ and then Ronan who _wrecked his car_. He’s lying on his back, pressing into his temple with the back of his hand to try and quell the building headache. Monmouth’s air conditioning is broken again, and it’s far too late to call anyone about it. For a single, terrible moment he wishes he still had the Suburban around, because at least he could sit in its functional amenity and be at normal human temperature for once.

He allows himself one single curse, muttered in tandem with the way he forces his body off the bed, letting the momentum guide sluggish bones. He feels useless. There’s simply nothing to be done, because Blue’s got a shift at Nino’s and Adam needs his sleep and he feels a little too raw to beg for Ronan’s company. Besides, Ronan’s at home less and less, and maybe that hurts more than any biblical betrayals. It’s the dull fear that Ronan doesn’t think of their place (of Gansey, because this entire place is an extension of Just Gansey) as _home_. At least not anymore. Not since he's gotten the Barns back.

He feels the itch for a capital-S Something: limbs weighed down with seeping rock yet impossible to keep still. A few years ago, it would have driven him to pack up and find a different continent to explore. A year ago it would have driven him to throw himself into something new. To learn an obscure game, to perfect it, to never play it again. Henrietta's home, though, and he can't imagine ever leaving. 

The Aglionby Swimming pool is open - not officially, no, but a winning smile for the custodian is all he needs.

  
Gansey debates changing - he’s been wearing this shirt all day, and it’s gotten to the point of being decidedly un-crisp, which is terrible. Ganseys don’t leave the house looking anything less than poised: Helen’s designer sweatpants attest to that. But it’s also comfortable and it’s his favourite yellow, and he kind of really doesn’t want to switch it for something crispy but _brown_. That might be the last straw for him, emotionally speaking. 

  
…

The Pig starts up at the first try. He debates whether that’s a dream thing - if it’ll always start if he threatens to cry if it doesn’t. No, Ronan’s hardly that nice. 

His windows are rolled all the way down as he drives, taking the winding route to Aglionby, the wind blessed against his open collar. He’s about to drive past the Litchfield House, but his route is blocked. Egregiously expensive cars dot the driveway, most of them spilling out onto the road itself. If there’s one thing to be said about rich teenage boys, it’s that parking fines are a suggestion and triple-parking is a temporary hurdle if it gets them to the alcohol faster.

Maybe it’s just the fact that it’s just humid and gross. Maybe it’s just the fact that even Noah isn’t around today. Maybe it’s just the pent-up frustration of always-misconstrued words and being helpless to help. Maybe it’s just the fact that he still needs to keep up Richard Gansey Three, because he _knows_ people are gossiping and his crown is ever-so-slightly tilting to the ground. 

He finds a place to park.

It’s unfortunately on the neighbour’s curb, but it’s a proper Aglionby party, and cars are arguably the least pressing problem. Gansey remembers the message, forwarded on the Aglionby groupchat, **heyyo @everyone is invited boys nd on cheng2’s fuckin dime❗!🗣!❗!** . He had ignored it in favour of researching a particularly interesting rock formation Adam might have found Cabeswater-ly relevant. And now Adam was ignoring him too, and the timing couldn’t line up any better if it tried. He exhales, tries to comb back some of his hair in the car window reflection and gives up in the same breath. It’s easy, really, to act like it’s all purposeful. Like he’s the Gansey who rules Aglionby, busy with important court duties but deigning to pop his royal head in to meet the masses. 

For once, the generically superficial theatrics of _Dickyboy_ s and three-fingered salutes are relieving rather than grating. They always turn to glance up at him, like he's respected, and maybe it’s just an ego trip, but he allows the new Aglionby Rowing team captain to thunk him on the back in an overmasculine hug. It hurts. His name is something with more syllables than Gansey's own. It's a running joke that every Captain has to have at least three names, with at least 5 letters in each. At least one of his is Lewisson, if the name at the back is anything to go by. His rowing t-shirt stretches tight across his chest, and his white teeth gleam against his dark skin. 

It’s easy to get caught up, then, because Broadway says something that’s not funny, but everyone around them bursts into raucous, contagious laughter. The group only widens after that, conversation generic enough that the pulsating throng of people can enter and leave and not miss a thing. It’s almost pleasant to be spared from intelligent colloquy. At least until instead drifting to the new team and Regionals, it goes to something about a national spelling olympiad, Ha-space-Ha Dicky You Should Get Parrish On That! No Wait, Send Lynch, I Bet That Fucker Can’t Read. Ha-space-Ha!

It’s suddenly terrible to be there, so he disentangles himself as politely as he can. The momentary thrill of company has worn off by now, and he wanders the place like a prospective realtor. There’s an untouched solo cup somebody put in his hand, but it’s suspiciously purple and it smells like cologne. Gansey hasn’t been to many parties, but he is sure that’s not a good quality in a drink. There’s less people on the second floor, though, so he certainly hasn’t been expecting to see Henry Cheng staring down at Carruthers, of all people. They’re both narrow statured, but take up the entire hallway. 

Henry’s tone is clipped, but Tad’s is exaggerated, and he waves his cracked iPhone around like it’s some sort of trophy. “Come on now,” he continues. “-out with me and I might not mail this to the fuckin’..uh.. TMZ, whatever.”

“No,” Henry says, jovial in the same way Gansey is polite. Surface-level, controlled. “And I will not be changing my mind.” 

Gansey pauses beside an open doorway. Tad looks like a bastard, which is to say he’s only slightly more slimy than usual. Cheng’s got his phone clutched loosely, and barely has to glance at it for a few seconds (to find the contact, maybe, because everyone at Aglionby knows the king is humble and respects his subjects and lets them have his cell number so he can ignore all their calls and say _oh dear me my bad_ ). It's fascinating how he types one thumbed with his phone against his side, and when Gansey’s buzzes, it says **gejk kgs** , and then **hekp pls**. 

Tad steps closer to Cheng’s space. Henry is tall, rendered taller by the thick soles of something that probably has a singular fancy logo down the side. But Henry’s large in a gracious way, slender and arranged. Tad is short in a stocky way that’s just greasy enough to make his step heavy. “I’ll send ‘em, Cheng.” He pronounces it wrong. Gansey bristles. “It’ll get to your Ma too, whatever the fuck she’s up to around here.” 

Gansey’s been himself long enough to recognize when threads begin to strain. He slides into the situation, not only a raven boy, but the full Richard Campbell Gansey experience thrice over. Cheng is carefully impassive, even as Gansey claps him on the shoulder. “Henry!” He swirls the cup like it’s one of his father’s champagne glasses. It’s an impressive feat, even for him. “There you are. I was wondering where you’d gotten to.” 

Carruthers clears his throat, like it means anything.

  
Gansey’s laugh is only a little mean. “Oh, Tad, what a surprise.” 

Henry’s long fingers rise to curl around his bicep, almost meeting as he squeezes just once. He takes the moment to wonder how big his hands must be, because Gansey’s definitely not skinny. “Ah! Yes, indeed, Richardman! I was only being accosted by the smell of Axe and revenge porn.” Something in him jerks, because, really, Tad of all people? Under the indignance, there’s the fact the sheer concept of a professional model’s extremities makes his throat dry.

Gansey holds out his hand for the phone, and this time his smile wars with something sharp in his eyes. “What a disappointment. It would be a shame if Child found out about these affairs. We’re quite close, you know.” Close because of all the Ronan-bribery, and he keeps his gaze even as he swallows the hot rush of guilt. His voice is a king’s. “Phone, please.” If there’s ever a question about gross favouritism in Aglionby, Gansey’s the answer. Tad knows this. He hands the phone over.

He does the double process of deleting it permanently, trying his best to focus on the icons and leave the strip of fairness blurry in his peripheral. He’s a gentleman, after all, and Henry is only just a friend in the superficial way of classmates. Tad takes it, but stays to glare at them from a few steps away. Cheng inclines his head towards the open bedroom door, moreso to get out of Carruther’s line of sight than anything else. 

  
  
  


“My glorious white knight,” Henry snorts sarcastically, as he slithers into the room. He shuts it behind them, leaning back with his palms to the wood. It’s only polite, so they have a space to speak privately. “I would have had it handled, you know, but I fear it would've gotten...” He falters. 

_Ugly_ , Gansey thinks. “Uncouth,” he offers aloud. 

“Yes,” Henry says simply, looking at him in a way that’s impossible to read. “It would’ve made a scene.” The space between them threads the edges of humiliatingly awkward, and he’s just about to excuse himself out of there when he continues. “Thank you.” 

It’s lovely, the way Henry accepts help, so unlike Adam and Ronan. The way he has to have it known that he’d got it controlled, just like Blue. Gansey feels warm, because he’s _helping_ , and his words aren’t sharp to Henry, who picks them up and rolls them around until they are soft sea-glass in his palms. It feels like being seen.  
  


His curiosity is a chronic disease. “Did you… date him? Carruthers, I mean.” Henry makes an outraged noise, dramatic enough that it gets his point across. 

“Absolutely not. I was supremely drunk, and sent a gift to the wrong person. Before you ask, no, I genuinely cannot remember who on earth I could’ve actually been trying to send it to. I am confident it was not him. I've been dodging that skeev since freshman year.”

“I didn’t look,” he blurts, inexplicably embarrassed. “if you’re worried.”

Henry’s laugh is sharp and delighted and shameless. “I wouldn’t mind if you did,” he winks, but he flirts with anything that moves, so it’s alright and it certainly does not make Gansey’s brain short-circuit. “I don’t care for modesty - you know, Dickman, back in the day we all used to be naked apes or whatnot. I was mostly thinking, like, what if when I inevitably get blacklisted from Hollywood? The worth of my OnlyFans will be grossly devalued if my assets are floating around.”

Gansey’s not sure what possesses him - maybe it’s the ghost of the Economics test he botched last week. “Like bonds. Did you know the first stock market began in Amsterdam? 1610, I think.”  


“1611,” Henry corrects, pulling off his dirtied overshirt-slash-jacket. He’s wearing a plain white tee underneath, which by all accounts should not look as good as it does. “But they weren’t a thing in America until much later. That’s not part of the syllabus.”

“No,” he agrees. “I read it on a soda cap months ago, I think.” It’s camaraderie, rightness, and he is eternally graceful for its solidity in all the shakiness he’s been in recently. It feels like being known, and he knows his smile is too toothy and real. It makes him a little light-headed. Henry’s shirt is definitely tailored. Gansey sits down, tries a sip of the suspiciously purple concoction, and it’s quite like dunking his head into pure ethanol. He makes a face.

Henry leans a knee on the bed, all casual, balling up the discarded fabric so he has something to do with his hands. His short shirt’s ridden higher. Gansey studiously ignores the strip of skin at the back. “Don’t drink poison,” he chides. “Jiang dumped Broadway’s perfume into that punch. I think it may count as a nuclear weapon now. I would hate to assassinate such an American treasure.”

“It’s only an assassination if it’s for political purposes,” Gansey says, looking up. Henry’s already so much taller, but something about looking up at him like this makes his ears thud. The light is angled right behind Cheng’s head, and it haloes around him. He can barely meet Henry’s eyes, and only partially because his glasses are dirty as always. He takes them off to try to clean them, but rubbing at them with his shirt only makes everything go sideways. “Otherwise it’s just regular murder.” He hopes Noah isn’t listening.

The blurry mass takes them from him, and Gansey is glad he can’t make out the new skin exposed as Henry pulls up his perfectly fit shirt to rub at them. “I believe it would be manslaughter, actually.”

Gansey cannot find it in him to argue. Henry fits his glasses back on, and his breath catches, because he’s suddenly far closer than he’d been. “Look at that, mister president. All better?” he asks, and something in Cheng’s voice makes his terribly eager smile widen. His glasses are secure, but the back of a soft hand lingers against his cheekbone. He has to crane his neck up to see him, but he leans one knee on the bed again, so close to Gansey’s fingertips. He thinks it might be the same unbearable magma that gives him the strength to move, to rest his hand against the rip in the thigh. 

“My friends stole my car,” he finds himself saying, like it’s a normal thing for him to press his fingertips into an acquaintance’s thighs, like he isn't pulling at the fray in the triple-digit-price-tag jeans. “Twice. One by one.”

The other boy tuts sympathetically. “I cannot imagine why anyone would do so willingly. Cars are terrible beasts. They terrify me. I’m a horrendous driver.”

He bets _Henry_ would never steal the fucking Pig. “They’re nice, really. The Fisker's an automatic, right? You should try stick, maybe that’ll help you get a hold of it.”

“That’s what he said.” 

Gansey shakes his head in a _tut-tut_ gesture, but it lacks any real venom to it. Something in him zings with the rightness of this, and he almost wants to say it. Henry smells like something flowery and clean. He traces his knuckles down the side of Gansey's cheek, perpendicular to the tan-line of his glasses because he's forgotten to replace his dried up contacts. It's the 7th pair he's ruined in this year alone. He manages to set the cup on the floor before it spills - there’s a legitimate risk that it’ll corrode the wooden floorboards.

Henry is uncharacteristically hesitant. "Can I ask?" he says softly, gesturing down his own face. "Those look like scars." 

Gansry stares up blankly as he remembers, and it's more than a little embarrassing- he hasn't had a fit like that in a long time, but the marks haven't quite faded out yet. The family doctor had insisted they would, _just give Junior some time and these six overpriced scar creams he’ll never use._ They show starker when he's seen the sun, but it’s hardly noticeable, unless you're a Ronan with soft hair and antiseptic wipes, or a Cheng with apparently the most observant gaze on the planet. It's probably the fluorescent lighting in Litchfield. His smile is tight lipped, expression turned mildly amused, as he touches his own fingertips to his face. 

They fit over them, two fingernails pressed right under his eye, splayed until the little finger curves over his lip. He mimes digging in, and dragging downwards. "I used to- I'd get these… episodes, I suppose, and it felt like there were, ah, bugs just under my skin. In my ears. And all I cared about was getting them off." He recognises his voice has gone a little hollow, but his gaze is still even, cataloguing the way Henry’s mouth drops open. The memory is unpleasant: the conviction of terrible things borrowing underneath his skin, _get it off get it off get it off stop lying to me I can feel they're there please just listen_ -

Henry urges his wrist away from his face, and presses his soft palm over it instead. His hand is slightly bigger than Gansey's face, and that’s somehow more comforting than embarrassing. He had feared for one terrible second, that he was going to get a pity spiel, but Cheng seems intent on returning the vulnerability. Equivalent exchange, or barter. "Fear is a terrible thing. It lingers. I was- I'd been kidnapped as a child. They put me in a manhole of sorts. Like the kind they'd use to hide liquor during the Prohibition. It had a wooden trapdoor sort of thing, that'd lock from the outside. I clawed my nails bloody trying to open it." 

He takes a breath, shifting to hold Gansey's jaw instead, thumb pressing at the indent of his dimple. "I knew, logically, it would not work. But panic and fear are… overwhelming things. Rationality is difficult. It is so difficult to have… there's an m-word for bravery I'm missing." 

"Merit. Mettle. It's hard to have much of a choice," There's a mint leaf in his pocket, and he pulls it out in habit, unconsciously. He's earnest, gesturing excitedly as he speaks. "What can I do? Live in a box my entire life because another sting would kill me?" 

Henry’s chuckle is soft as he leans forward. "If you cannot be unafraid," he recites, "it is better to be afraid and happy." His lips are oft-bitten, but they look soft regardless, half-open with the word on his mouth. There’s probably a reasonable thought process that urges Gansey to put the mint leaf between his teeth, that makes him close that final distance, but he’d be hard pressed to explain it. 

And then there’s this. Cheng’s steady hand on his jaw, the careful way he leans in - the abrasive texture of the leaf caught somewhere between their tongues. The sick rightness to it, like he’s always known how this would go. His hair urges on the edge of too silky, sliding right through Gansey’s fingers until he has to twirl it taut to get a grip. It makes Henry gasp, almost disbalancing as he breaks away to breathe, stumbling as uprights himself - eyes wide. 

“I know I started this but- _oh_.”

“Oh,” Gansey echoes, something terrible sinking into the pit of his stomach. He can feel his ears burn, something at the back of his throat prickling at the same time. Foolish and overeager. Nothing new.

  
  
“No no no,” he says, waving his arm with more gusto than required, panting like he’s run a mile. “ _Good_ oh. Give me a moment, Dicky, I’ve been waiting on this for a year.”

**Author's Note:**

> fellas is it gay to sexily clean the homie's glasses


End file.
